One Year

It has been one year since we last said our goodbyes.

That was a sad and scary day. We didn't know what would happen to you when the doctors removed the breathing tube but we knew it had to be done. We wanted you to rest and be comfortable. We didn't know how much time we would have with you. We sat near you in the white room with the big window. It was quieter now without the whirring machine that had been drawing your breath in and out for two days. We sat on your bed, rubbed your cold feet with cream, held your hands, stroked your cheek. You opened your eyes several times and looked right at me. I sang to you and threaded my fingers through your magnificently white hair.

A and N were there the whole time.

We thought we would have more time with you. M and A came unexpectedly. We talked as if we weren't in the white room, but sitting around the kitchen table dipping licorice flavored biscotti into our coffee's. As you always did, I imagine that you enjoyed the company of gathered women.

I stepped outside the white curtained room to say goodbye to A when that women, the angel who had prayed with us and told me that god was waiting for you, pulled me inside, "It's time," she said. Machines started beeping. A nurse came in to listen to the last beats of your heart. You breathed in and then out, in and then out.

The room was filled with the sound of Ohm, the heavens indeed had broken open as eager hands reached out to gather you into their arms.